Thirteen
by daltoned
Summary: When the grandfather clock strikes thirteen, Kurt Hummel finds himself among ghosts. AU of "Tom's Midnight Garden" by Philippa Pearce.
1. Chapter 1

Kurt pressed his fingertips to the cool glass of the car window and sighed heavily, staring out at the empty fields they were driving past. His iPod playlist had long since stopped, but he kept one earphone in in the hopes that it might dissuade conversation.

No such luck. "So, Kurt," his aunt Anne said cheerily, glancing in the rear-view mirror at him, "what sort of things are you interested in, then?"

Kurt briefly debated ignoring her, pretending that he was listening to music and couldn't hear her, but two weeks was going to be a terribly long time if he made things awkward now. "Fashion," he replied, although he was sure to keep a reluctant tone in his voice. "Music. Singing."

"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows at him. "You'll get on well with Lily, then."

Because Kurt was so interested in getting on with his aunt's girlfriend. "Right." Kurt turned his eyes back to the window, watching in mild distaste as they drove past a herd of cows. His thumb brushed back and forth over the screen of his iPod, the rhythmic rasp soothing his frazzled emotions. Goddamn Finn and his habit of catching contagious diseases—namely whooping cough—right at the start of their summer break.

"I'm afraid there's not really much to do at the flat," Anne said, her tone apologetic. "We can get you an oyster card, though, so I guess you can entertain yourself around the city, if you like shopping."

Kurt smiled tightly at her, then returned his attention to the external scenery, where they were just merging onto the M1.

Anne didn't seem to have picked up on his apathy, because she continued to talk:

"I'm not saying that the flat isn't _nice_—it's lovely, don't get me wrong—but there's not exactly a lot of space. We're looking into moving somewhere with a garden, but the economic climate is hell at the moment, as I'm sure you know, so it's really just not working out."

Again, Kurt considered ignoring her, but this time manners won out. "I'm sure I'll be fine. It's only for two weeks, after all."

Anne gave him a nervous smile and then reached for the radio. "How about a little music, eh?"

Kurt bit his lip as the dulcet sounds of Katy Perry blasted through the car. He fumbled for his iPod and—not-so subtly—put his other earphone in as well.

This was going to be an interesting stay, he could tell.

The flat was situated in an old manor house, long converted into a block of flats. The stone walls were grey and lifeless, the pillars either side of the front door weather-worn. At the front were ten parking spaces—cramped and with little space for turning, Kurt noted, as Anne carefully and somewhat awkwardly manoeuvred the Ford Anglia into a spot close to the wall of the house. Kurt winced at an unidentifiable scraping sound, and shot Anne a nervous look, which she didn't seem to see.

"Here we go," she announced, still with that cheery tone in her voice. "Home, sweet home."

"Yeah." Kurt gave her a dubious look. "It looks...nice."

"It's better inside, just you wait and see." She opened the driver's door, pushing it until it rested against the side of the house, then squirmed out through the tiny gap. Pulling open Kurt's door, she smiled sunnily. "It's a good thing you're so skinny, or we might have a problem here."

_We still might have_, Kurt thought to himself, eyeing the bare six inches of space he had to fit through. He pulled out his headphones, wrapping them around his iPod and shoving it in his jacket pocket. Holding his breath and sucking in his stomach, he wriggled through the gap, the door mechanisms digging uncomfortably into his back.

Anne smiled again—and damn, that smile was really starting to unnerve Kurt—and hurried around to the back of the car to open up the boot and grab Kurt's bags, handing Kurt one before slamming the boot shut.

Kurt followed her through the front door, which squealed somewhat alarmingly, and into a gloomy entrance hall. There was a dusty chandelier hanging from the ceiling, a tangle of wires wrapping around it to the singular bare bulb emitting its feeble light into the long hall. Kurt took a step forward and his boots squeaked slightly on the checkerboard-style floor, the surface slippery with dust and a fine layer of grime. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"The landlord doesn't like to get people in to take care of the house," Anne explained, also looking slightly disgusted by the state of the entrance hall. "He's a grumpy old so-and-so—keeps to himself, away at the top of the house. I've only ever seen him twice. He's an odd fellow, but the rent's cheap and he had no problem with Lily and I."

Kurt was starting to re-evaluate how _interesting_ this stay might be. He hadn't originally factored in filthy mansions and crazy landlords, to say the least.

A dull ticking was emanating down the hallway, a hollow echo that made something clench uncomfortably in Kurt's chest. He paused, looking around. "What's that?"

Anne waved a hand. "It's just the old grandfather clock. Ignore it; it's a bloody loud thing but it never strikes the right hour."

As if to prove her words, a loud chiming started up; six strikes that left Kurt's ears ringing. He checked his watch, the luminescent hands glowing in the half-light, to see that it was approaching noon. "Why doesn't the landlord get it fixed? Or get rid of it?" After all, it was the only item of furniture in the hallway; everything else had clearly been stripped away, leaving rough marks on the paintwork of the walls. He could see faint outlines of paintings lining the walls, now that he looked closer.

"He's rather particular about his clock," Anne said. "It's screwed into the wall, and the nails have rusted in, or I'm pretty sure he'd have it upstairs with him." She took Kurt's arm, steering him through a side-door. Kurt only got a glimpse of a shadowy clock down the end of the hall, next to a narrow door with a rusted handle and peeling paint, before Anne was ushering him up a narrow flight of stairs.

At the top of the stairs were two doors, small white cards with numbers and names stapled on. "We're in 1B," Anne said, knocking on the left-hand door with a sharp, precise knock. "Lily's in; she's just getting lunch sorted. Salad and sandwiches okay with you?"

Kurt nodded, but was interrupted from answering by the door swinging open and a small lady with a cloud of fluffy blonde hair grinning up at him. "You must be Kurt!" she said, sounding delighted. "Anne's told me so much about you!"

Barely restraining himself from raising an eyebrow and giving the small woman an incredulous look—already she reminded him of a yappy dog—and instead stitched a polite smile on his face. "It's lovely to meet you," he said, offering a hand, which she took and shook enthusiastically. Kurt winced involuntarily at the death grip she gave him, and was somewhat relieved when she let go in order to usher them in through the door.

Inside, the flat was small but cosy; the wooden floors were well-swept and all the rooms brightly lit, a welcome contrast to the front hall and stairwell. The kitchen doubled as the front hall, Kurt saw, with a large table dominating most of the space. Anne dumped Kurt's bag on it, next to a well-stocked bowl of fruit, and gave her girlfriend a hug and a peck on the cheek. "Lunch ready?"

"Just about," Lily chirped, scurrying back over to the worktop, where Kurt could see three plates piled high with Caesar salad and sandwiches. "I didn't know what you'd want in your sandwiches, Kurt, dear, so I thought you could put whatever you liked in them." She gave him a brilliant smile, showing all of her tiny, pearly-white teeth. Kurt blinked at her. "There's cheese and ham and other stuff in the fridge, so do help yourself. What would you like to drink?"

Kurt awkwardly placed the bag he was holding on the table. "Um, water's fine, thanks."

"Are you sure? That's terribly boring, dear—we have lemonade and coke and juice, if you prefer." Lily gave him a concerned look, as if Kurt's preference of water was something deeply disturbing to her.

Kurt frowned. "Water's fine, thanks," he repeated.

Lily didn't lose her worried expression, but she sighed and filled a glass all the same. "Just take a seat, dear," she said. "Anne, darling, could you set the table?"

Anne gave Kurt a small smile and moved to do as she was told, setting out cutlery with a precision Kurt found somewhat unsettling. Kurt sat down, painfully wishing for the warm familiarity and comfort of his own kitchen, with him and Carole in the kitchen together whilst Finn and Burt watched TV out in the living room. He looked around him, at the brightly lit surfaces and white walls, and felt a wave of homesickness wash over him.

Kurt's room was small, but with a large window taking up most of one wall. Kurt frowned upon seeing it. "Why are there bars across the window?"

Anne shrugged. "There were bars there when we moved in, and the landlord hasn't given us permission to remove them."

Kurt carefully placed his bags on the bed, which was narrow and pushed against the wall, a tartan rug covering the foot. "At least there won't be any burglary attempts, although the neighbours may think that you're housing a juvenile delinquent," he joked feebly.

Anne smiled slightly at the joke, but Kurt could see that his humour had fallen flat. "The bathroom's the door next to yours, and don't hesitate to ask us if you need anything, okay?"

Kurt nodded.

"We usually have breakfast around seven, but if you want to sleep in then there's cereal in the cupboard over the sink." Anne gave Kurt a tight smile before leaving the room, closing the door behind her with a quiet 'snick'.

Kurt sighed and perched on the edge of the bed. The sunlight fell through the window, painting the floor with stripes. His pocket vibrated; he dug in it to retrieve his phone, where he saw a text lighting up the display.

From: Finn  
_sry abt this dude. hope londons ok._

Kurt sighed again, and looked around the bedroom—at the pot of patchouli on the side table, at the bars on the windows and the poky five-by-seven foot space.

To: Finn  
_yeah it's okay. get better soon. K xx_

Second later, his phone lit up again—this time with a text from Mercedes.

From: Mercedes  
_finn says you're in london already. text me pics! you'd better buy some nice new outfits, white boy._

Kurt didn't bother responding to the text. He tossed his phone down on the duvet and flopped back across the bed, his head pressed uncomfortably against the wall. He was probably messing up his hair, but he couldn't be bothered to care; it was hardly like he was going to be going out in public.

The distant chiming of the clock reverberated up through the house, confidently striking eleven times. Kurt rolled his eyes; his watch read seven pm. That clock was going to keep him up all night, he knew.

Sure enough, Kurt was still awake when his watch ticked over to one o'clock in the morning. He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and counted the strikes of the grandfather clock: _one, two, three, four..._

He sighed to himself. What was wrong with striking once, like a _normal_ clock would?

_...five, six, seven, eight..._

The clock continued to strike, as if to show its defiance against Kurt's derision.

_...nine, ten, eleven, twelve-_

Thirteen?

He frowned. Surely clocks couldn't strike thirteen, even as madly wrong as this clock was? Had he miscounted? He must have done; the lack of sleep surely getting to him. He shook his head and turned over, burying his face in his pillow and trying to get rid of the ringing from his ears.

Yet the echo of the chimes stayed with him, an irritation bouncing around his skull. The silence now seemed expectant, the entire house holding its breath and the dark pressing in on Kurt, whispering the word 'thirteen'over and over again. 'Thirteen, Kurt. _Thirteen._'

Kurt growled in frustration, sitting up. Before, the clock may have struck the wrong hour, but at least they had been _real_ hours. There was no thirteenth hour—it was either twelve or one, with no in-between. There was no thirteenth hour on the clock face, either; the hands would be pointing to one, Kurt was sure of it.

He lay down and pulled the duvet up over his head, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to ignore the adrenaline suddenly coursing through his body. _Thirteen_.

"Fuck this," he said suddenly, sitting up again. "I'm going to go see what the clock says." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his ankles poking out long and bony beyond his too-short pyjama bottoms. He reached for the red hoodie slung over the back of the chair at the end of the bed, pulling it over his head and running his fingers through his hair automatically. He stuffed his feet into his doc martens, internally mocking what a terrible outfit this must all look. Pyjama bottoms, a designer hoodie and doc marten boots; a winning combination, for sure.

Carefully, and as quietly as he could in his boots, he crept to the door of his room and out into the kitchen, tip-toeing past Lily and Anne's room and to the front door of the flat. He took a banana from the fruit-bowl to wedge the door open after himself, before slipping out of the door and down the stairs.

The hall was even darker by night, the light-bulb now switched off, thereby leaving the hall in almost utter blackness. Kurt could just about see the white tips of his boots as he slowly walked down to the end of the hall, following the noise of the ticking. He should have brought his phone for light, he realised now; there was no way he would be able to see the clock face in this oppressive darkness. Come to think of it, what was he doing trying to look at the clock face anyway? He knew the time; he knew that it was just past one am. Why did he need to see the clock face?

He shook his head, sudden irritation coursing through him—and slipped on the dusty floor, falling to the ground with an 'oof', the impact driving all the air from his lungs and jolting his very bones. He groaned, sitting still for a moment. His head was spinning slightly, his back aching painfully. "Fuck," he groaned. "I'm such an idiot, god."

Slowly, he got to his feet again, attempting to brush down his pyjama bottoms in the black. He sighed, looking around him hopelessly. "And now I have no clue where the door is. _Great._"

He started to inch his way towards where he assumed the nearest wall was, and, when his hands came into contact with it, started to work his way in what he hoped the direction of the door was, trying not to think about what spiders and mites might be hiding on the walls he was currently running his fingers along, or what state his clothes were most probably in right now.

"Aha!" he murmured, when he felt the ridge of a doorjamb under his fingertips. He patted around, looking for the door handle. He wrapped his fingers around it, twisting and tugging as once motion, and pulled it open to be faced with a beautiful, moon-lit garden. He gaped for a moment, bewildered, and took a step through it, his boots sinking into the soft, dewy grass. Hadn't Anne said that there wasn't a garden? Or did she just mean that the garden didn't belong to them?

Kurt took another step forward, glancing around in confused wonder. This garden was akin to those one would find attached to some great mansion, not at the back of a block of flats in Ely, in the middle of a rather crowded group of houses. Kurt frowned; hadn't he seen just a concrete yard through his window, facing onto a row of semi-detached houses? He turned around and looked up. Sure enough, there were the two barred windows; his bedroom and the bathroom. The house looked cleaner by night, as if the moonlight had cleansed it of its London grime and general dilapidation.

About ten metres away from Kurt, across the expanse of lush grass, crouched a greenhouse, the moonlight gleaming along the steel frame and off the glass roof. Above it was a tree, a twisted and gnarled thing spreading its arms up into the sky with its cloud of leaves and twigs poking out here, there and everywhere. From this angle, it looked as if the moon was nestling in the tree-top, a mother bird with her flock of stars.

Kurt smiled to himself at the imagery and shivered at the biting cold that suddenly crept under his hoodie in a gust of chilly wind. It was unseasonably cold for July; the night air was frigid and blustery, the stars staring down in all their frozen glory.

He hurried back into the house, making a mental note to explore the garden in the morning. He stopped when he closed the door behind him, frowning at the sudden light in the hall. Had somebody turned the light on? He looked to where he expected the bare light bulb to be shining away boldly, but instead saw a gleaming chandelier, light sparkling from the crystal. And since when had there been crystals on the chandelier?

Kurt looked around him, noting the sudden cleanliness of the floor, and the paintings lining the hallway. In the nearest one, a dark-headed family posed—a father, mother and son, their expressions solemn and their clothing vaguely 1930s-esque. Kurt raised his eyebrows. "Okay, I have got to be dreaming this. I just fell asleep upstairs and none of this is real. It's just my imagination going haywire again," he told himself firmly. He pinched his thigh, digging in his nails. "Ow ow ow _fuck_, my imagination is vivid."

The door to the staircase opened, a blonde-haired girl in her late teens entering the hall, carrying a wicker basket filled to the brim with laundry. Kurt frowned at her clothing; unless he was sorely mistaken, she seemed to be dressed as a maid in a white apron, cap and cuffs, the black skirt slightly too long for her. She didn't seem to notice Kurt, being so intent on her mission, so he cleared his throat to alert her of his presence. If it was a dream, she surely must be in it for a reason, so he might as well talk to her.

But instead of reacting with surprise, she completely ignored him. In fact, she looked over at the corner where Kurt was standing without seeming to notice him, and walked straight on, towards a door that Kurt was pretty sure hadn't been there before.

However, instead of walking through the door and closing it behind her, she started to fade the moment her fingers touched the doorknob. It wasn't as if she was passing through the door; she merely seemed to become transparent and fade from view. Kurt gaped. Within seconds, she was gone, without the slightest suggestion that she had been there at all.

Kurt looked around him again, and caught the family portrait in the middle of fading from view as well; his eyes snagged on the face of the little boy, his bright eyes and oddly-shaped eyebrows remaining even when the rest of the portrait was all-but gone—and then they, too, disappeared from sight.

Kurt swallowed. "Okay," he said to himself, slowly, "that was weird. My brain is really weird."

The light from the chandelier started to flicker and fade, too; Kurt cursed to himself and hurried towards the door to the stairwell, making the most of the light as it dimmed, sputtering before finally going on. His boots started to slip on the dusty floor again just as he reached the door and pulled it open, almost falling through into the stairwell.

He shook his head, blinking hard to try and clear his head. "Back to bed it is, then," he muttered, before starting back up the stairs to the flat.

In the morning, Kurt woke up feeling as if somebody had smacked him over the head with a cricket bat. He groaned, closing his eyes again.

His alarm beeped, a tinny, incessant sound that felt like it was driving nails into Kurt's skull. He flapped a hand out for it, but only succeeded in knocking it off the bedside table. He muttered a few choice words and rolled over, reached down an arm to search for it on the floor. His fingers brushed against his boots, instead, and he grimaced at the wet he felt on them.

Wait a minute.

Wet?

Kurt sat up properly, wriggling off the bed to pick up his doc martens and examine them. The toes were covered in wet dirt, and, as he ran a finger over one, a couple of broken blades of grass. He frowned, holding up a blade to examine, as the night's events came flooding back. "What the...?" He shook his head, whimpering slightly as that caused the pounding in his head to increase—and what the fuck, had he been drinking last night without realising it?

There was a knock at his door. "Kurt?" Anne asked.

"I'm up," Kurt called back, his voice croaky. "Give me half an hour to get myself sorted."

"The bathroom's free if you need it," she said, followed by the sound of her footsteps moving away.

Kurt fell back against his pillows and frowned at his boots. He should probably go check out the garden after breakfast, get to the bottom of this mystery. In the meantime, however, he needed to go through his moisturising regime—strange occurrences and dreams were hardly going to get in the way of proper skincare—and get dressed. He collected his wash things and padded out of his room, heading into the bathroom to take a shower.

He was in the middle of getting undressed when a thought occurred to him. Shirtless and in just his pyjama bottoms, he wandered towards the window, pulling the blinds aside to peer out through the bars. Sure enough, there was just a small, concreted-over courtyard out the back, dustbins lining the high brick wall. In the corner, there was the tree Kurt remembered from last night—hunched and with gnarled fingers poking into the air through its crown of leaves. There wasn't a blade of grass in sight. "Huh," Kurt said to himself, letting the blinds fall back into place. "That's weird."

That evening, Kurt stayed awake on purpose and, when his watch ticked over to eleven pm and the grandfather clock struck five, crept out into the kitchen and made himself a cup of instant coffee, trying to keep the clink of the spoon against the mug as quiet as possible in the silence of the kitchen. He took it back to his bedroom to sip slowly, allowing the caffeine to infiltrate his blood and jolt his brain into wakefulness, wrapping his fingers around the cup and appreciating the warmth in the cool of the night.

Sure enough, the steady chimes of the grandfather clock echoed throughout the house at one am-thirteen strikes, Kurt noticed again, counting them one by one. He slipped his boots on again once more, this time with socks on underneath, and pulled his hoodie over his head. Grabbing his phone for light-he was prepared this time-he slipped from his room and out of the flat, again wedging the door open with a banana from the fruit-bowl. The hallway was as dark as the night before; this time, however, Kurt turned his phone on, the light almost blinding in the darkness.

He was almost at the door when the hallway began to flood with light once more, the light bulb flickering on and then disappearing, crystals fading into existence and the dust and grime on the marble floor vanishing with every step Kurt took. Sure enough, the portraits were back-although this time there was a new one, another family one in which all three family members looked distinctly older; the boy was closer to Kurt's own age than he had been before, Kurt noted.

The garden door opened like before, but this time it opened into daylight, the sky blue and with wisps of cloud dragged across it like strands of hair. Kurt took a cautious step outside, his boots sinking into the dewy grass again. There was still a crispness to the air; a chill that permeated through Kurt's hoodie and made goosebumps jump up on his skin. He could hear a dog barking in the distance; a flock of birds wheeled and soared in the air. All in all, it looked like any other garden might do.

"What are you doing here?" A voice from behind Kurt asked.

Kurt wheeled around, eyes wide, to take in the boy standing in the hallway. He was shorter than Kurt, with a tumble of dark curls and oddly-triangular eyebrows. He was the boy from the paintings, Kurt realised, and _shit_, he could see Kurt.

The boy frowned at him. "You're not one of the servants," he said suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. He looked quite threatening, with his heavy eyebrows drawn together. "Are you here to steal?"

"No." Kurt frowned. "How come you can see me?"

The boy gave him a strange look. He walked towards Kurt, hands in the pockets of his grey trousers. He was wearing a navy blazer with red piping, an embroidered crest with the letter D on it on the breast pocket. Around his neck was a loosely knotted red and blue striped tie, a crisp contrast to the white of his shirt. "Of course I can see you," he said, sounding confused. "Why wouldn't I able to?" A look crossed his face, like something horrific had occurred to him. "Wait, are you a ghost or something?"

Kurt crossed his arms defensively. "I think you're the ghost, rather."

The boy wrinkled his nose. "I'm not a ghost, unless ghosts have to go to boarding school."

So that was his uniform, then, Kurt guessed. "Well, then," Kurt said briskly. "I'm Kurt. Kurt Hummel." He stuck out his hand.

The boy took it, still looking suspicious and slightly confused. "Blaine Anderson," he said, shaking Kurt's hand. "Nice to meet you, I'm sure. What makes you think that I'm a ghost?"

"Um," Kurt said, "nothing? It doesn't really matter."

"Okay," the boy—Blaine—said doubtfully. "So if you're not here to steal, then what are you doing here?"

Kurt shifted uncomfortably. Shit, what should he say? "I...I got lost," he said after an awkwardly long pause.

"In my back garden?" Blaine raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

"Um. No?"

Blaine rolled his eyes. "Well, you'd better scarper unless you want my dad to catch you and hand you over to the police."

"The police?" Kurt squeaked before he could stop himself.

Blaine gave him an almost amused look, tilting his head to one side slightly. "You're not very bright, are you?" he observed, without cruelty in his voice.

Kurt bristled. "I'm perfectly intelligent, thank you very much. I'm sorry for being surprised when somebody threatens me with arrest."

"You _are_ trespassing," Blaine pointed out. "That's a crime, last time I checked."

Kurt blushed. "I didn't really mean to," he said, looking around him. "Like I said, I got lost. And, um, I don't really know how to get home."

Blaine sighed, expression definitely verging on amused now. He held out a hand, which Kurt stared at in surprise before taking somewhat hesitantly. "Come with me," Blaine said, leading him into the garden once more. "I know somewhere we can talk."

Blaine's hand was warm in Kurt's, and slightly sweaty. Kurt bit his lip, trying to beat down the fluttering in his stomach. Now was most certainly _not_ the time to be getting excited over a boy holding his hand.

Blaine stopped at the base of the tree and gestured up to a branch about a foot above their heads. "Up you go, then."

Kurt stared at him in horror. "I am _not_ climbing a tree," he said, disgust in his voice. "These boots were not made for tree climbing in the slightest."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "Look, do you want my father to catch you or not?"

"I'm not climbing a tree," Kurt said again. He tugged his hand away from Blaine's and folded his arms. "No _way_ in _hell_ am I climbing a tree."

"See, it's not so bad," Blaine said cheerfully, patting Kurt on the knee. He swung his legs, looking far too pleased with himself for Kurt's liking. "I won't let you fall."

Kurt glared at him. "I don't usually make habits of climbing trees with strange boys," he said with his haughtiest tone.

Blaine just laughed and brought one leg up to rest his chin on it, wrapping his arms around his knee as he looked at Kurt with large, bright eyes. "So, tell me what you're doing in my garden. The full story, please. None of this 'getting lost' business, because I think we both know that that's not true."

Kurt picked at the bark by his thigh and considered how to start talking. It all seemed so unreal and silly in the daylight, with Blaine sat warm and comfortable beside him. It sounded ridiculous even in his own head. "It's probably not the best idea to be telling you this whilst we're up a tree," he said finally, glancing up to meet Blaine's eyes. "Or be telling you it at all, really."

Blaine made a humming noise at the back of his throat, still watching Kurt with warm hazel eyes. "Go on."

"I...I think I might have, um, time-travelled," Kurt said awkwardly, looking down at his legs and then regretting it because _shit_ they were a long way up. He swayed slightly, but then a hand on his knee steadied him and he looked up into Blaine's calm face again.

"Go on," Blaine said, sounding completely unruffled by this revelation.

Kurt frowned at him. "Shouldn't you be a little scared by the crazy boy talking about time travel?"

Blaine shrugged. "Probably. But I _did_ watch you appear out of thin air, so it's most likely all one big delusion brought on by an awfully long train journey back from school."

Taken aback, Kurt blinked at him. "Okay," he said, "so, um, I think I've time-travelled, because there was this clock, you see, and it struck thirteen so I went to have a look and then there was this garden and a maid and I think I've probably travelled about sixty years in time."

Blaine's eyes widened at that, and he let out a long, low whistle. "Damn. So what's the future like? Actually, no, don't answer that." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "Um, so how long are you here for?"

Kurt shrugged. "It was only minutes, last time. It's already been about half an hour, so I could go at any minute, I guess." Blaine nodded, as if storing the information away for a later date. Kurt was starting to be able to see the branches of the tree through him, he realised; he was fading already. "I think I'm going," he said softly, reaching out to brush his fingers against Blaine's arm.

Blaine looked at him, a surprising depth of sadness in his eyes, for a boy he had met bare minutes ago. "I can see."

"I'll be back. I hope."

Blaine made to catch his hand, but their fingers passed through each other—whose passed through whose, Kurt couldn't tell. Blaine drew his hand back, clasping it with his other in his lap as he let his leg fall down, feet kicking listlessly. "I hope to see you again," he said, smiling sadly.

"Yeah," Kurt said, the sky darkening rapidly and the air cooling. "Me too."

And then he was left alone perching on a branch of a tree, in a small concrete courtyard enclosed by a high brick wall, surrounded by dustbins and weeds, in the middle of the night in his pyjamas.

It seemed like too much to hope for, that the garden would be there three times in a row—that _Blaine_ would be there again—but Kurt still lay awake in bed that night, listening intently for the moment that the clock struck thirteen, tensing every hour, just in case it struck early—or not at all.

The thirteenth strike did come, however, and Kurt immediately slipped from his bed, already in his hoodie and socks, wrestled his feet into a pair of Converses, then hurried out of the flat and down the stairs into the hall, where the chandelier was already lit and the sounds of a gramophone could be heard through the other closed door—the door that no longer existed, in Kurt's time. He hesitated outside it, wondering if Blaine was behind it—if anything was behind it at all, even—before he heard a boy's voice singing out in the garden, singing along to the record on the gramophone. It's a song Kurt had never heard before, a jazzy tune with a fast beat, but the voice singing outside sounded familiar.

He wandered over to the garden door and pushed it open, looking out across the grass to where he could see Blaine up in the branches—and sure enough, he was singing out, his voice bright and warm. Kurt stood in the door for a moment, letting Blaine's voice wash over him, a soothing sound that made Kurt's stomach do weird flip-flops and attempt to escape up his windpipe.

Blaine didn't see him, his eyes closed as he belted out the chorus of the song—_Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, with anyone else but me; No! No! No! Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, 'til I come marchin' home!_

Kurt smiled, starting across the grass as Blaine continued with the song, his voice slightly rough but undeniably happy. He waited quietly until the song finished, enjoying watching Blaine rock out by himself, legs swinging freely and face expressive, even with his eyes closed.

"That was really good," he said loudly, grinning when Blaine startled and looked down at him in astonishment. He stopped grinning, however, when Blaine windmilled his arms and lost his balance, pitching over backwards to land with a hard _thump_ on the grass. "Shit—Blaine—!" He almost fell over his own feet in his hurry to get to where Blaine was groaning and attempting to sit up, his leg twisted under him at an odd angle. "No, no, don't sit up—no, _don't_ sit up, I said—"

"Ow," Blaine said plaintively, lying back down on the ground and looking up at Kurt with a pained yet wondrous expression on his face. "Hi, Kurt."

"You idiot," Kurt chastised, carefully touching Blaine's leg. "This is why you shouldn't go climbing trees."

Blaine bit his lip and started to struggle into a sitting position, his face contorted into a grimace. Kurt rocked back on his heels and helped him with gentle hands on his arms, worry and guilt coiling in his gut like vile snakes.

Blaine prodded at his ankle, wincing as he did so. "I think I've twisted it," he said, sounding mournful.

"Be grateful it wasn't your neck," Kurt snapped, his tone more worried and less acidic than he had intended. He squeezed Blaine's bicep before letting go. "Do you need help getting into the house?"

Blaine considered it for a moment, flexing his foot. "I think I'm okay," he said, already starting to try to get to his feet. Kurt made to help him all the same, but was interrupted by a panicked shout from the inside of the house.

"Blaine!" The girl that Kurt had seen before was rushing across the grass, her long blonde hair flying around her face and her skirts flapping around her heels.

Blaine sighed and flopped back against the grass. "I'm okay, Britt," he called. "Just a sprain."

The girl dropped to her knees beside Blaine and touched his ankle gingerly, paying Kurt no attention. "Lord Tubbington _told_you that you would probably fall out of that tree, but you ignored him," she said sternly, long fingers gentle as she unlaced his shoe and pulled it off, as well as the sock beneath. Kurt sucked in a breath when he saw how red Blaine's ankle was, and how it was swelling already.

Blaine made a face down at it. "I'm _fine_, Brittany." He shot Kurt a curious look, evidently wondering why Brittany hadn't seemed to notice him, but didn't call attention to it. "And tell Lord Tubbington that I'm sorry and I'll try to not fall out of the tree again."

"Lord Tubbington?" Kurt asked, but Blaine ignored him and just gave Brittany a sheepish smile.

"I think I'm going to need ice on this," he admitted. "Can you run and get some for me? I'll be in my room."

Brittany nodded, her face serious. "The fairy's going to help you up there, isn't he?"

Blaine blinked and Kurt sucked in a gasp, the sting of the slur all-too familiar. He was about to get up, but Blaine frowned slightly at him and he stayed in place, crouched awkwardly over Blaine. "What fairy, Britt?"

"The one who visits the garden," she said, as if it were obvious. "I can't see him, but I know you can because I saw you talking to him before. It's fairy magic, I think. He doesn't want me to see him because he's here for you, not anyone else." She turned to address the empty air to the other side of Blaine from where Kurt was crouching. "I left your fairy ring undamaged. Lord Tubbington wanted to eat the mushrooms, but I stopped him."

Kurt raised an eyebrow and looked down at Blaine. "She thinks I'm a fairy?"

Blaine shrugged, his expression becoming increasingly more pained. "Um, could you go get that ice for me, please, Brittany?"

She nodded, leaping to her feet as gracefully as a cat, and almost sprinted back into the house.

Blaine made a groaning noise and pressed his head against Kurt's arm. "I'm thinking I might need that help now, I'm afraid. And sorry about Brittany. She's a sweetheart, but she operates in her own little world that I don't quite understand."

"I admit, I am curious to know who Lord Tubbington is," Kurt said, helping Blaine up and wrapping a firm arm around his waist. "You can lean on me, if you want," he added needlessly.

Blaine hissed through his teeth as they took their first step towards the house. "Lord Tubbington's the kitchen cat," he said through gritted teeth. "She's rather taken with him."

"I can tell," Kurt said dryly, holding Blaine tighter when Blaine whimpered slightly. "Do you need me to go slower?"

"I'm fine," Blaine gasped, his face very pale.

"Because you sound absolutely perky and ready to run a marathon." Kurt eyed the distance between them and the door, relieved to see that it was only a few more feet. "Where's your room, by the way?"

Blaine nodded up at the windows above them. "First floor. It's the one with the bars on the windows." He laughed, although the sound was weak and tinged with pain. "It used to be my nursery. My parents never did seem to understand the difference between 'nursery' and 'prison'."

"My room has bars on the window, too," Kurt said thoughtfully. "The bathroom, too. Maybe they're the same room."

"You live here?" Blaine halted, looking at Kurt in surprise. "Like, here? In the future?"

"My aunt lives here," Kurt hesitated, thinking about the time period and the 40's and the homophobia back then, "with her...friend."

Blaine shot him a curious look at the hesitation, but then they were at the garden door and Kurt had to try and hold the door open whilst helping Blaine through and they were an embarrassing tangle of limbs as they both went to open the door at the same time. Kurt ended up with a mouthful of gelled hair and Blaine's face smushed against his collarbone.

"Um," Blaine said, pulling away from Kurt as if he'd been burned, his face bright red when previously it had been pale with pain.

Kurt flushed. "Sorry about that. I was trying to get the door for you." He reached out to steady Blaine when he teetered, off-balance. "Careful—you don't want to fall again."

"I'm fine," Blaine said yet again, his cheeks still stained red. "And thanks. I'm sorry for being so clumsy."

Kurt chuckled, standing back to let Blaine hop into the hall, although he left his hand on Blaine's arm—to steady him, he swore; it wasn't that he liked the feel of Blaine's bicep flexing under his palm, not in the slightest.

They were half-way up the stairs when things started to fade around Kurt once more: a blue-painted vase, the paintings on the walls, the sounds of the gramophone still playing downstairs. Blaine looked at him when Kurt made a noise of distress. "Kurt? What is it?"

"I think I'm going," Kurt said, trying to hurry Blaine up the stairs faster, hoping he could get Blaine into his bedroom before he was completely gone.

Blaine laid his hand over Kurt's and squeezed it, before picking up his pace and instantly almost stumbling. "It seems that I have no co-ordination today," he said ruefully, clinging onto Kurt like his life depended on it. He pulled himself upright again, Kurt's hoodie bunched in his fingers. Kurt felt it when Blaine's fingers fell through—it felt like a breeze had touched the skin at the small of his back, sending prickles up his spine.

He looked to Blaine in panic, but saw that Blaine was already fading, figure braced against the wall. "Sit down," he said, having to speak louder to make himself heard. "Wait for Brittany to help you."

Blaine nodded, the movement blurring his features into nothingness. Kurt stood alone on the stairs and watched as the light dimmed around him and the carpet vanished from beneath his feet, Blaine disappearing into thin air like smoke over water.

Then, with trembling hands, he walked the last few steps by himself and returned to bed, not bothering to take off his hoodie (although he toed off his Converses). He curled up under the blankets and breathed in the scent of Blaine, which was already vanishing fast from the fabric of his hoodie.

He fell asleep as the grandfather clock chimed once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt was already opening the garden door when the grandfather clock struck thirteen that night. This time, the sunshine didn't startle him when he blinked up into what appeared to be a midday sky, the sun small and high in the frosty periwinkle-blue. The air had a cool, crisp feel to it, and the ground felt frozen and hard beneath his feet as he turned in a circle, looking around. Every time the garden sprang into life around him, he felt the same sense of tingling wonder rush through him, leaving him giddy and somewhat breathless.

The sound of a window opening caused him to turn around and look up at the house. Blaine had his bedroom window as open as he could, the bars restricting him from opening it fully. "Kurt!" he called, waving down and grinning. "Come on up!"

Kurt hurried back inside and up the stairs, glancing at each of the portraits on the walls as he passed them. There were a lot of men with bushy eyebrows similar to Blaine's, their faces stern and their clothes dating back into what Kurt could only assume were the early 1800s.

At the top of the staircase were three doors; the first one was open, and that was the one through which Kurt could see Blaine sat on his bed, a pair of crutches by his side and his foot tightly bandaged. Blaine looked up when he heard Kurt's footsteps, a grin lighting his face once more. "I wasn't expecting you for a few more weeks," he said, sounding delighted, waving Kurt in through the door.

Kurt ventured through, looking around at Blaine's bedroom—twice the size of his, he noted, and he could only assume that it included what was, for him, the bathroom. "How long's it been?" he asked, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

Blaine rolled his eyes at Kurt's discomfort and patted the bed covers beside him. "Sit down, you chump." He shifted further up the bed slightly to give Kurt space, but remained close enough for their elbows to brush together. "It's only been three days." He tipped his head to the side, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Maybe you knew that I was bored and needed company."

Kurt relaxed onto the bed slightly, although he was unable to ignore the voice in his head shrieking about being sat on a bed with a boy and _what would your father think?_ "Maybe the clock is psychic and knew," he said with a smile. "I certainly don't have any control over it."

Blaine gave him a curious look. "The clock?" he asked.

"The grandfather clock in the hall," Kurt said. "It strikes thirteen every night—"

"Strikes thirteen?" Blaine sounded doubtful. "How is that even possible?"

Kurt shrugged, and then gestured to himself and the room. "How is any of this even possible?"

Blaine hummed in acknowledgement, wriggling further back up the bed so he could swing his leg up onto the pillows, resting his head in Kurt's lap. Kurt tensed slightly, not quite sure how to react. Blaine closed his eyes and sighed. "That's better," he said, sounding satisfied. "My foot was killing me."

"Okay," Kurt said cautiously. He leaned back slightly, propping himself up on his hands so as to have something to do with them. "But yeah, the clock strikes thirteen every night and then all of this appears around me, when I go down to the garden."

"That's pretty cool," Blaine said, already sounding sleepy. He yawned, bringing a sluggish hand up to cover his mouth as he cracked an eye open to peer up at Kurt. "Your lap is really comfortable, by the way."

Kurt blinked. "Thanks, I guess?"

"It's a compliment, don't worry," Blaine assured him. "It means that you're an awesome cuddler."

Kurt blushed, looking away. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Uh-huh." Blaine's eyes were closed again, his face slackening as he started to drift off. Within seconds, soft snores were leaving his slightly-open mouth.

Kurt stared down at Blaine, not entirely sure what he was supposed to do with the sleeping boy in his lap. Should he wake him up? Move him? Let him be? Awkwardly, he brought up a hand to pet at Blaine's hair, glad for the lack of hair gel. Blaine's curls were soft and springy under his fingertips, his hair somewhat in need of a cut with ringlets tumbling all over the place. Blaine made a little muttering noise at the contact, and shifted closer to Kurt, nose perilously near Kurt's crotch. That decided it for Kurt. Slowly, being sure not to disturb him, he lifted up Blaine's head and slipped out from beneath him, drawing his legs up and away from Blaine so that they were lying parallel instead, Blaine's head lolling onto Kurt's shoulder.

Kurt stared up at the ceiling, noting the differences between Blaine's room and his own. The larger space and the extra window made a large difference; Blaine's room seemed lighter and airier, less cramped and poky. The white-washed walls were the same, although Blaine had a polished oak floor where Kurt had a worn carpet. In the corner of the room stood a tall closet with intricate carved panelling, and the mirror directly opposite the bed afforded Kurt a view of Blaine and himself curled up together. He tried to ignore the fluttering in his stomach at that, reminding himself that Blaine had just fallen asleep and people fell asleep with their friends all the time.

Sleep was tugging at his eyelids, however, as it was well into the early hours of the morning for Kurt, and he gradually drifted off into a gentle haze of sleep, the warm press of Blaine's body at his side both a distracter and a comfort.

Kurt awoke alone, curled up on top of the covers of his own bed at the flat. He blinked blearily at the fingers of sunlight stretching their way across the floor, and raised his arm to check his watch. 6:03am. He let his arm flop back down onto the covers, sleepily debating the pros and cons of climbing under the covers and returning to slumber.

The cool breeze tickling his calves eventually decided it for him. He rolled over, tugging at the duvet until it covered him properly and shut his eyes again, ignoring the fact that his feet were on his pillow and his head was nearly dangling off the foot of the bed.

With his eyes closed, however, he was only more aware of the lack of Blaine's body next to his own, the bed feeling empty and cold. He groaned in frustration and threw an arm over his face. The boy from the past was already under his skin, after just three meetings.

Kurt was screwed.

"That old grandfather clock has been striking the strangest hours recently," Anne said over breakfast that morning. She poked at her eggs with her fork, frowning slightly. "I almost feel like I should just call somebody in to fix it, but the landlord would probably chuck us out for messing with his precious clock."

Kurt shrugged, ignoring the squirm of panic in his gut at the suggestion, and took a sip of coffee. He swallowed it before saying, careful to keep his voice casual, "I don't know. I think it's quite charming, to be honest."

"Charming?" Lily raised an eyebrow. "That's one way of putting it."

Kurt smiled slightly. "It makes me think of how long that clock's been here, yet it still strikes every hour."

"Whether it strikes the _right_ hour or not is another matter." Anne sighed and put down her fork, eggs untouched. "No, you're right. It's none of my business."

"Do you know who lived here before, anyway?" Kurt asked lightly, taking another sip of his coffee.

Lily looked surprised at his question. "Why do you ask, dear?"

He shrugged again. "Just curious, I guess."

"I don't really know," Anne said, "although the landlord is so attached to that clock that I assume he must have lived here for quite a while. Maybe even before the house was converted into flats."

Kurt frowned into his coffee. That couldn't be right. _Blaine's_ family had lived here before the house was converted into flats, surely? "Do you know where I could find out more?" he asked, only just remembered to keep a tone of polite frigidity in his voice at the last minute.

Anne shook her head, returning to her eggs, but Lily looked thoughtful. She propped her chin up on her hands. "You could always try the London Metropolitan Archives," she said. "If you're interested, I could drop you there on my way to work tomorrow."

Kurt barely managed to suppress his grin. "That would be fantastic, thank you." He got to his feet, leaving his coffee half-drunk. "Anyway, I need to dash—I was planning on getting some hardcore shopping in today, so I should probably hurry."

He all but bounded back into his room—Kurt Hummel didn't _bound_, after all—and went instantly to the window, looking out through the bars into the courtyard below.

"I'm going to find out who you are, Blaine," he whispered to the tree down there. "I'm going to find you."

Kurt didn't even get halfway down the stairs that night before everything was melting into place around him. It seemed to get quicker and quicker each time, as if the clock remembered better where everything went with practise.

He could hear shouting coming from the open door downstairs, the one that no longer existed in Kurt's day.

"I will not have people _talking_ about this family!" a gruff voice roared, deep and abrasive to Kurt's ears. "At the moment it looks like I can't even control my own son, and I will _not have that_."

"Father, I'm keeping up my grades perfectly at Dalton." Blaine's voice. "I'm on the track team and the football team, and the Warblers are extremely well-regarded by universities as a valid extra-curricular."

"You're wasting your time on that silly choir and everybody knows it. Poofters, the load of them, and I will not have my only son throw in his lot with them." A creak, as if he had sat down in a desk chair. "You will give the council your resignation as soon as you get back. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," Blaine said, his voice quiet and choked.

"Don't look like that, boy. I'm doing what is best for you—someday you'll see that. How's that girl of yours? Rachel what's-her-name?"

Kurt felt like he'd been sucker-punched in the stomach, closing his eyes and turning his face to the wall. Of course Blaine was straight. He'd been foolish to get his hopes up only to get them shot down again. He started to turn, intending to make his way back upstairs and not see Blaine, only to realise that he had no way of leaving—he was stuck here until the clock decided it was time for him to leave. He swallowed, hard, and then sat down on the stairs, clasping his hands and listening to the argument tearing on behind that door.

"...not interested in dating, Father," Blaine was saying, painfully earnest as ever. "I want to focus on my grades and make sure I get into university. I don't have time for girls."

"Don't be stupid, boy," his father grunted. "Girls are what make boys _men_. I keep telling you that Quinn Fabray would be a perfect match, but you don't listen to me."

"We aren't a good match," Blaine said. He sounded tired and beaten down, Kurt thought, feeling a twinge of sympathy. "We have nothing in common, and nothing to talk about."

"She's a perfectly nice girl. I don't see what's wrong with her."

Blaine sighed, impatient. "There's nothing _wrong_ with her. There's just nothing _right_, either."

"That's disappointing, Blaine." His father harrumphed. "I need to get back to work now, so just think about it, will you?"

"Yes, sir," Blaine said, and he was so quiet that Kurt had to strain to make out his words.

The door opened, and Kurt caught a glimpse of a wood-panelled office, a large desk dominating the majority of the space, before Blaine shut it behind him and sagged against the wall. He tipped his head back, exposing the long line of his throat, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Kurt got to his feet, dusting off his pyjama bottoms. "Daddy problems?" he asked, leaning on the banister. (He still found it weird that the hallway had expanded to include the stairwell, in Blaine's time, but he thought it far nicer than the poky stairwell that existed in 2011.)

Blaine looked up in surprise, the pinched expression leaving his face when he saw Kurt. "You could say so," he sighed, straightening up and walking over to the stairs. "How could you tell?"

"I don't know—the shouting and arguing gave me a hint, though." Kurt smiled at him, hopping the last few steps down to the foot of the stairs. "Inside or outside?"

Blaine glanced over at the garden door. "The tree?"

Kurt gave him a stern glare. "The last time you were up there, you fell out of it and sprained your ankle."

Blaine shrugged, reaching out to grab Kurt's hand and tug him towards the garden door all the same. "That's only because you surprised me. If you're with me then you can't surprise me, can you?"

Kurt laughed, taken by surprise. "Your logic is as infallible as ever, I see," he said, hearing the fond tone in his own voice.

"Precisely." Blaine held open the door for him with a mock-courteous bow. "After you, good sir."

Kurt shook his head, unable to hold back his smile. "You are such an idiot."

"That's why you love me," Blaine chirped, slinging an arm around Kurt's shoulders and dragging him over to the tree. "Now, you have to tell me all about the music in your time, okay? I figure that that's one of the safest questions I can ask, and..."

Kurt had thought that it might be weird to look at Blaine, knowing what he now knew, but Blaine's cheerful smile and tackle hug drove all thoughts of war and death from his mind.

"It's been _days_, Kurt," he whined, although Kurt could feel Blaine's smile against his neck. "The longest time yet, in fact."

"Nothing to do with me, I assure you." Kurt hugged Blaine back tightly for a moment, then stepped back and looked at him, tilting his head and fixing a mock-serious expression on his face. "I think I can see a grey hair, though."

Blaine gasped playfully, hands flying to his hair. "You cannot!"

"Can too." Kurt grinned impishly, leaning back against the tree and folding his arms. "So how long's it been this time?"

"Nearly a month," Blaine said, looking injured. He reached out to take Kurt's hand—something he often did, Kurt had noticed. "I was _lonely_, Kurt."

"I swear you were at boarding school, though," Kurt objected. "You could hardly have been lonely."

Blaine pouted. "Fine. Well, then, I was lonely for you, Mr Pedantic."

Kurt felt the blush working its way up his neck, but he ignored it. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr Anderson."

Suddenly, from out of the blue, there came a horrible screeching and wailing sound, splitting the air and making Kurt jump in fright.

Blaine's grip on Kurt's hand tightened. "Air raid siren," he muttered, looking up into the sky with a filthy glare. "We should probably get inside the shelter."

"Shelter?"

"It's out in the apple orchard," Blaine said, already leading Kurt over to a gap in the hedge at the side of the garden that Kurt hadn't noticed before. "The only cool thing about it is that it's called an Anderson shelter. Nothing to do with my family, though. Anderson's a pretty common name."

The siren was still yowling. Kurt winced at the ear-splitting quality of it, covering an ear with his free hand. "Is it always this loud?"

"Pretty much."

To the side of the orchard stood a low structure sunk into the ground with a corrugated iron roof. Kurt vaguely recognised it from his History classes as being the most common type of bomb shelter in the Second World War, and that was when it sank in.

This was an air raid.

With bombs.

Very, very real bombs, time-travel or not.

Panic started to claw its way up his throat, making his heart beat in triple time and his palms to sweat. He felt sick.

Blaine looked at him in concern. "Are you okay?"

Kurt nodded mutely, pretty sure that if he opened his mouth he would be sick.

Blaine bit his lip, clearly unconvinced. "It's quieter in the shelter," was all he said, however, and Kurt was grateful for the fact that he didn't try to comfort Kurt with feeble platitudes. He squeezed Kurt's hand once before dropping it, crouching down to push the door open. He looked over his shoulder at Kurt and gave him a crooked smile. "It's not much in here, but it's safe enough."

Kurt clambered in after him, ducking his head in order to get through the small entrance. Inside, it was cool and dim, the air slightly damp against Kurt's skin. Kurt could hear Blaine rummaging around beside a dark shape, and heard the click of a torch—light flooded the shelter, allowing Kurt to see what was inside.

The floor was packed mud and dug about four feet down into the ground, and two low-slung bunks were pushed to either side of the shelter, which was about six foot in length—Kurt's dad could lie down on the ground and have his head against one wall and his feet against the door.

Blaine sat back on his heels and smiled at Kurt, his features oddly lit by the torch. "You can sit down, if you like," he said, nodding at the bunk. "We'll probably be here for a couple of hours or so." He straightened up and started trying to hook the torch into an oddly shaped wire brace hanging from the ceiling of the shelter—evidently some sort of self-devised light.

Kurt nodded tersely and perched on the edge of a bunk, wrapping his arms around his torso. He could hear the siren still wailing—although, like Blaine had said, it was a lot quieter inside the shelter.

Blaine settled down beside him, close and warm and comforting. Kurt could smell the washing powder on his clothes, the scent of his soap and the already-familiar smell of Blaine himself. Blaine reached out and rested a hand on his knee, meeting Kurt's eyes with a warm expression. "It'll be okay, I promise." He smiled. "After all, if the house is still standing in your time, then it's hardly going to be destroyed now, is it?"

Kurt closed his eyes and allowed himself to huddle closer to Blaine. Blaine's words made sense, although all he could think about was the images from his History classes in school—bombs falling through the air, the whirr of planes in the sky overhead, fires erupting throughout cities. He thought back to the records he had found at the London Metropolitan Archives, about _Blaine Anderson_ in Courier New on the untouched pages of the records. He thought about the words soldier printed in block capitals under Occupation. He thought about the picture attached to the file; Blaine, only a little older than he was now, dressed in a soldier's uniform and cap, bright smile on his face and twinkle in his eye.

Then there was an arm being wrapped around him and Blaine's voice, soothing in his ear; "It's all right, Kurt. Just breathe. Just an air raid."

No, they weren't going to die today, but Blaine was going to die someday, Kurt knew. He turned his head into Blaine's chest, breathing in the scent of Blaine and soap and washing powder.

"I think I have some toffees in here, if you want one," Blaine said thoughtfully, remaining wrapped around Kurt. "I didn't finish my tuck box this term, and I think I left it in here the other day." He pulled away from Kurt and rolled off the bunk, kneeling down on the floor—Kurt winced at how the mud must surely be ruining the knees of his trousers—and rooting around in what sounded like a metal container. "Aha!" His head popped up again, grinning in excitement. "Brittany didn't feed them to Lord Tubbington after all." He unwrapped one from its brown paper wrapper and offered another one out to Kurt. "Want one?"

Kurt took it, unwrapping it with somewhat unsteady fingers, and put it in his mouth. The toffee was sweet and hard, sugar melting on his tongue into a sticky syrup. "Thanks," he managed to say around the sweet.

"No problem." Blaine sat back down next to him and sucked happily at his sweet, making loud slurping noises that caused Kurt's ears to flush red. "I usually read a book when I'm in here," he admitted in a conspiratorial tone. "Sometimes I get so sucked into it that I don't even hear the all-clear and Brittany has to come fetch me."

Kurt frowned. "Where_ is_ Brittany?" he asked, slurring around the toffee.

"In the cellar, I think. It's too far for her to get out of the kitchens and get here in time, so she usually just goes down into the cellar and waits there." Blaine shrugged, bringing his legs up to sit cross-legged. He leaned back on his hands and looked up at the ceiling of the shelter, at the rust marks and dirt encrusted onto the corrugated metal. "It's usually just me in here, to be honest. Father's at the bank a lot and Mother has a lot of friends she visits."

"So you just stay in the house by yourself?" Kurt asked. The Anderson shelter was cool, causing goose bumps to rise on his arms despite his thick hoodie. "Don't you get bored?"

Blaine shrugged. "I read a lot, and play piano. Sometimes I help Brittany in the kitchen or around the house, although my father says I'm not meant to." He cocked his head, suddenly listening intently. The siren had changed sounds already, a rising scale that echoed in the shelter. "That's quick," he observed. "It's usually a couple of hours before the all-clear sounds."

"Maybe it was a false alarm?"

"Maybe." Blaine considered it for a moment, then shrugged, pushing himself off the bed and reaching up on tip-toes to unhook the torch from the ceiling brace. As he did so, his shirt and tank-top lifting to bare a stretch of pale olive skin, smooth and stretched over the jut of a hipbone. Kurt averted his eyes, feeling strangely embarrassed. Blaine flicked off the torch and dropped it on the bunk bed, reaching out to take Kurt's hand in the sudden dark. "How much longer do you have, do you think?"

"A few minutes, maybe? I don't know." Kurt allowed Blaine to tangle their fingers together and lead him from the shelter, blinking in the abrupt harshness of the daylight. As if to back up his words, things were already starting to go misty around the edges, Blaine's hand suddenly much lighter in his own.

Blaine seemed to have noticed it as well, because he looked down at their linked hands in concern. "You're going, aren't you?" he asked, sounding oddly sad.

"I think so." Kurt squeezed his hand before letting it go, not wanting to feel his hand pass through Blaine's.

Blaine nodded and stepped back. "You'll be back, though?" He looked small and young in his ill-fitting clothes, the brown of the tank top too dull for him, the crisp white of the shirt too cold.

Kurt smiled at him. "If I can." He glanced over his shoulder to see the Anderson shelter completely fade away, the orchard trees fading too. "Shit," he said suddenly. "I need to get back to the house." He broke into a run, seeing the hedge already starting to turn into a fence, a trampoline melting into being two feet away on his right. He found the gap in the hedge as it was starting to grow over, jumping through wooden slats seconds before they became corporeal. He didn't dare to look back at Blaine, knowing that he, too, would be gone, fading into the ether.

He was ten foot from the garden door when a brick wall stopped him in his tracks. "Crap," he groaned, clutching his shoulder where he had taken the brunt of the blow. "_Fuck._"

Kurt was now stood at the end of somebody's garden in the early hours of the morning, looking like a vagrant in his pyjamas and a hoodie, with a six foot brick wall standing between him and his warm bed.

He stepped back and looked up at the top of the wall, a bare foot above his head. There was a spindly tree growing further down, branches just about bending over the top and mingling with the branches of the other tree—Blaine's tree, Kurt called it in his head.

Maybe...

He reached up and tested swinging his weight on the lowest branch. It held his weight, although it bent a worrying amount. He could do this. Carefully, he swung his body up onto the branch, waiting for it to stop swaying before he stood, clinging to the trunk, and reached for the next, which would get him over the wall and into the branches of Blaine's tree.

He was sat astride the top of the wall when a light flicked on, up on the top floor of the house. Kurt froze, watching as a figure appeared at the window: an old man with craggy eyebrows and no hair, staring down at Kurt with what looked to be a glare.

"Fuck," Kurt whispered again. This was, no doubt, the infamous landlord, and he probably wouldn't be best pleased to see Kurt clambering over the yard wall in the middle of the night.

He stayed still, hoping against hope that he hadn't been noticed—that the old man's eyes were poor enough to not spot him. After what seemed like a lifetime, but had probably only been a couple of minutes at most, the man moved away from the window, although the light remained on.

Quickly, aware that he probably only had seconds before the landlord returned to the window, Kurt scrambled down the tree, dropping the last few feet to the ground and nearly running back into the house and up the stairs, back to the flat.

Anne was frowning when Kurt walked into the kitchen that morning, a piece of paper in her hands. "Know what this is?" she asked, holding it up to show Kurt.

Kurt's heart stopped. It was a small scrap of paper, blue-tack still affixed to the back, with a single sentence scrawled across it in blue fountain pen.

_Might want to get back quicker next time._

"Kurt?" Anne looked at him in concern when he froze in his tracks. "Do you know what this is?"

"No," he said, doggedly keeping his voice even and casual. "No clue."

Blaine was perched in the tree once more when Kurt found him that night—day—whatever. He grinned sunnily at Kurt when he saw him approaching. "I didn't think you were going to show up today," he said, pocketing something that flashed in the sunlight and nimbly jumping down to the ground. "It's only been a week."

"Has it?" Kurt asked curiously, looking around at the garden. "It's sunnier than it was, last time."

"That's just English weather for you, I suppose." Blaine grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I've got something to show you." He beckoned Kurt closer and Kurt, intrigued, followed him around the back of the tree. He gestured to a spot a little above eye level, where he had carved the shaky letters B.A. into the bark of the tree. "I'm marking all of the trees that I've climbed, starting with this one." He dug in his pocket, bringing out a sleek silver penknife, which he proudly showed to Kurt. "My father bought me this, as a reward for my report card this term. I wanted a new pen, but this is just as good, I guess." He was flushed with excitement, his eyes sparkling.

Kurt smiled, reaching out to take the knife and examine it. "It's lovely," he said perfunctorily, as he had no real knowledge or understanding of knives, and no wish to learn, "but you really shouldn't be carving into trees."

Blaine stopped bouncing. He frowned at Kurt, confusion crinkling his brow. "Why not?"

"It's not good for the tree. It's like cutting into a person's skin." Kurt handed the penknife back to him and settled down on the drier earth at the base of the tree, bringing his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around them. He leaned back against the tree trunk and stared up into the pale sky, appreciating the fragile warmth the weak sunlight afforded.

Blaine flopped down beside him, leaning heavily against Kurt and resting his head on Kurt's shoulder. Kurt bit his lip at the fluttering sensation that simple action started up in his stomach, and patted Blaine's head awkwardly, wrinkling his nose at the hair-helmet of hair gel Blaine was wearing. Blaine sighed heavily, warm and ticklish against the side of Kurt's neck. "If I promise not to carve into any other trees, will you add your initials to this one?"

Kurt weighed up the ethics of carving into a tree against the childish glee of having his initials next to Blaine's, and groaned. "You're not going to let up until I do, are you?"

Blaine grinned, wide and puppy-like. "Please?"

Kurt huffed. "Fine." He got to his feet, dusting off his pyjama bottoms—and he should probably dress up more for these meetings, he thought absently—and took the penknife when Blaine offered it. "Where do you want me to put it?"

Blaine leaned back against the tree and stretched his legs out in front of him, looking up at Kurt with a smile. "Next to mine?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, ignoring the blush that burned his cheeks and ears. He pressed the blade of the knife against the bark, pushing hard to get it to break the surface. He hissed at it when it stuck, having to brace his shoulder against the tree to press harder. Slowly, he carved out the letters K.H., the strokes of the letters harsh and angular against the wobbly curve of Blaine's B. When he finished, he stared at his work with an odd sense of accomplishment curling in his belly; he knew that it was wrong to carve into trees, but he couldn't help the thrill that it sent through him to see his and Blaine's initials side by side.

"You know what it's missing?" Blaine said, his head twisted at an awkward angle to look up.

Kurt tipped his head to one side, considering. _A heart_, he thought privately. "What?"

Blaine sprang up, nimble as ever, and took the penknife from Kurt's hand. Skilfully and with a steady hand, he added in a plus sign, between their names, so that it read B.A.+K.H. instead of B.A. K.H.

"Hey," Blaine said, nudging Kurt in the ribs, "you know whose name our initials spell?"

Kurt frowned, looking at the letters which were proudly inscribed in the bark. "No...?"

"'Bach'," Blaine said, sounding pleased with himself. He leant into Kurt, his body warm and heavy against Kurt's side as he wrapped an arm around Kurt's shoulders.

"They do not," Kurt objected. "Last time I looked, my name started with a K, not a C."

Blaine laughed, a warm, mellow sound that sent electricity sparking through Kurt's veins. "But Bach made the most beautiful music," Blaine said with a wide grin, "just like us. C'mon, it's close enough, surely?"

Kurt smiled in spite of himself, twisting his head to look at Blaine. He noted the sparkle in his eyes, the curve of his jaw, the way his eyebrows wiggled up and down when he got excited. He noted the pink of his lips, the faint stubble on his jaw, the length of his eyelashes.

Blaine noticed him staring and paused, a self-conscious flush working its way up his neck. "What?"

"Nothing," Kurt said, unable to keep a smile off his face.

Blaine's flush crept up even further, painting his cheeks with a rosy blush. "You're staring," he said softly, eyes flickering down to Kurt's lips.

Kurt felt his heart rate pick up, a thrumming at the base of his throat that threatened to choke him. "So I am," he said, keeping his voice hushed.

Blaine's arm tightened around him almost imperceptibly, before slipping down to loop around his waist. Blaine bunched his fingers in the back of Kurt's hoodie, the pressure of his touch sending delightful shivers up Kurt's spine. Blaine's tongue flickered out to wet his lips, and Kurt eyes tracked the motion. He felt over-sensitive, raw and trembling with wild energy that threatened to overwhelm him. Blaine was so close; Kurt could smell him, the warm, husky scent that seemed to reach out and envelop Kurt in comfort.

Without even realising it, he had pressed closer to Blaine, until there were scant inches between their faces, their chests brushing together. Kurt reached out to wrap his fingers around Blaine's tie, unable to take his eyes off Blaine's face.

"What are we doing?" Blaine asked quietly, his warm breath skating over Kurt's lips. Kurt could feel him trembling, and it soothed him to know that Blaine felt the same way too.

"Sshh," Kurt murmured, before leaning in to press his lips against Blaine's. Blaine stiffened momentarily—Kurt felt his heart lurch in fear—before melting into Kurt with a soft sigh and kissing back, his hand that wasn't curled into Kurt's jumper coming up to cup his jaw instead.

Blaine tasted good, Kurt thought, as he let his mouth fall open slightly—just enough to taste Blaine _properly_. He tasted of the sweets they had shared earlier; sweet and slightly tangy.

Blaine pulled back then, his face completely flushed and his eyes dark and slightly shocked. "Um," he said, and Kurt couldn't take his eyes off Blaine's lips and how red and wet they looked. _I did that_, Kurt thought to himself, allowing a frisson of delight to course through him.

Kurt unwound his fingers from Blaine's tie, but didn't move away. Blaine's hand dropped to Kurt's shoulder, a pleasant weight that sent tingles up the side of Kurt's neck.

"Wow," Blaine said after a moment of just standing there, feeling the pound of their heartbeats.

"Yeah," Kurt agreed.

"We should do that again."

"Ye—mrphh—!" Kurt's hands went automatically to Blaine's hair, but his fingers tangled in the gel and he growled into the kiss in frustration. Blaine let out a tiny whimper at that and pressed in closer, kissing him more frantically until Kurt felt dizzy and like he never, ever wanted to stop doing this. He felt rough bark at his back, and absently surmised that Blaine must have pushed him against the tree, out of sight of the main house. A good thing too, he realised—Blaine would probably look just a little insane, making out with thin air.

Reluctantly, the lack of oxygen getting to him, Kurt pulled back. "I haven't got much longer," he said, dropping another quick kiss on Blaine's mouth. "The clock's going to strike at any moment."

Blaine whined and wrapped himself around Kurt, burying his face in Kurt's shoulder. Kurt laughed slightly, petting at Blaine's back. "I'll be back, don't worry," Kurt said, his attempt to sound reassuring thwarted by the breathlessness Blaine invoked in him by nuzzling at his neck. "I'm hardly going to be kept away."

Blaine stayed very still for a moment, then peeled himself away from Kurt with dread in his eyes. "What if you _can't_ come back?" he asked, his voice breaking slightly on the last word. "What if that's it? If our time has run out?"

Kurt ignored the panicked clench of his stomach at that and instead reached out to wrap his hand around the back of Blaine's neck again, brushing his thumb up and down comfortingly. "It's going to be alright," he said gently, locking his eyes with Blaine's and feeling his heart skip at a beat at the glow he saw in those hazel eyes. "I promise. Whether it's a week or a year, I'll be back, I _swear_."

As if to punctuate his words, the striking of the clock started up again; another thirteen tolls that were taking him away from Blaine once more. Kurt pressed another, frantic kiss to Blaine's lips, trying to engrave into his mind the memory of how Blaine felt and tasted, before straightening up. "I have to go."

Blaine caught his hand, fingers warm and fitting so _perfectly_ with Kurt's own. "I love you," he said fiercely, his eyes glowing with a passion Kurt had never seen before. "I know it's early to say it but it's true. I love you." He swallowed. "And it's okay if you don't want to say it, I swear, but I just wanted you to know."

Kurt squeezed Blaine's hand, looking at this stupid, wonderful boy who had captured his heart in such a short space of time. "I love you too," he said, refusing to be hurried by the impatient calling of the clock.

And with that, he tore his hand away and hurried, half-running, to the back door and that grimy hallway and his life that seemed so much duller without Blaine there to light it up with bright colours. As he reached the door, he glanced back to see Blaine stood beneath the tree, a heartbreaking expression on his face and a downcast slump to his shoulders. Kurt dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, the sting barely noticeable compared to the pain in his chest. "I love you," he repeated, just loud enough to Blaine to hear. "And I _promise_ that I'll be back."

Blaine just nodded, already fading from Kurt's sight. The greenhouse was nothing but a faint blur in the distance, a brick wall springing up into existence. The only thing left was the tree, still as gnarled and twisted as ever.

Kurt bit his lip, blinking away the tears that were burning at the back of his eyes, and shut the door behind him, the hall enveloping him in its gloom once more.


	3. Chapter 3

"You said that you'd be back."

Kurt started to reach for Blaine, only to drop his hand to his side when Blaine stepped back from him, his eyes wet and angry. "I didn't know," Kurt said softly, his voice feeble in the still of the night air. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Three _months_, Kurt." Blaine swallowed, looking away as if he couldn't stand to look at Kurt. His hair was wet, damp curls sticking to his forehead and only just starting to spring up again, and his tartan pyjamas were worn at the cuffs and hems. "Three months, you left me here waiting—every night, I would _wait_ for you, and you never came."

Kurt's eyes stung, his throat burning. There was a lump in his throat, stopping the words he wanted to say from getting out. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I can't control it."

"Well maybe you should _try_," Blaine spat back, spots of pink high in his cheeks. "How long has it even been for you? Days? Hours?"

Kurt closed his eyes, turning away. This hadn't been what he had anticipated for tonight; he had anticipated sweet kisses and talking, up in the tree or in Blaine's room—not standing apart in the cold night air, the grass crunchy with frost beneath their feet and angry hurt lashing back and forth between them.

Blaine's next words were quiet, choked. "Did you even have time to miss me?"

Kurt opened his eyes and met Blaine's gaze. "Of course I missed you," he whispered, hands reaching out for Blaine automatically. He felt a tight knot in his stomach loosen when Blaine stepped forward slightly, taking Kurt's fingers in a loose grip. "I missed you so much," he continued, "you have no idea. I swear I would have come back to you sooner, if I could have done."

Blaine's grasp on his hands tightened, pulling Kurt closer towards him. Neither of them said anything, their heads bowed close enough for them to be breathing the same air. Kurt carefully reached up ran a hand through Blaine's hair, scraping his fingernails against Blaine's scalp until he felt Blaine relax against him, his weight warm and somehow familiar. "Sshh," he soothed, feeling something wet against his neck—tears or drips from Blaine's hair, he couldn't tell. "I'm here now. I promised as much."

Blaine made a soft sound against his neck, and then surged up to meet Kurt's mouth in an even softer kiss, a brief brush of their mouths. Kurt wound his fingers in Blaine's hair, tilting his head to re-capture Blaine's mouth, kissing him deeper and firmer, trying to express all of his emotions through his tongue and lips.

Pulling back, he studied Blaine's face carefully. Blaine had more stubble now, he noted, letting go of Blaine's hair to stroke along the line of Blaine's jaw. "Every night?" he asked.

Blaine closed his eyes and leaned into Kurt's touch, the expression on his face intense. He looked as if he were trying to memorise the sensation of Kurt's fingers on his skin, as if he were terrified it would be the last time he might feel it. "Every night," he murmured. His eyelashes were long and dark, fanning out like dusky feathers against his cheeks.

Kurt swallowed hard, pulling Blaine closer against him, until he could feel Blaine's heart beating in his own chest. "I'm sorry," he said again, hands returning to Blaine's hair. Blaine made a broken sound and slipped his arms around Kurt's waist, his hold almost bruising in its desperation. Kurt pressed a kiss to Blaine's cheek, letting the touch linger. He swallowed again, allowing the surge of possessive, protective emotion to fill him, alien as it was. "I'm never saying goodbye to you," he promised. "Never."

He doesn't get the chance to say goodbye that night, anyway. They fall asleep wrapped around each other, and when Kurt wakes up, he's alone.

Blaine's bedroom was quiet in the still of the dark, the only sound that of their breathing—regular and soothing. When Kurt closed his eyes, the dark behind his eyelids no different to the dark in Blaine's room, he could feel himself being lulled into a dozing slumber by the hypnotic in-and-out, in-and-out, in-and-out.

"Kurt?" Blaine's voice broke the stillness.

He made a murmur of affirmation.

"Do you ever want to know what happens in the future?"

Kurt was wide awake again. "Not particularly," he said slowly, not entirely sure what Blaine was getting at but having a sneaking suspicion that he might. "I don't usually think about things that are impossible, to be quite honest."

"No but, if you were given the opportunity to know, would you?"

Inexplicably, Kurt could somehow tell that Blaine was looking at him with that intense look in his eyes. He reached out and rested a hand on Blaine's chest, hand rising and falling with every inhalation and exhalation. After a long pause, one weighted with expectance, he answered: "I don't think so."

"But wouldn't it be nice to know that, whatever you did, you would always be doing the right thing? Because it was already laid out by fate?" Blaine asked. Kurt could feel the vibrations of his voice rumbling through his chest, tingles shooting down Kurt's arm up to his heart, which started to beat quicker in response.

Kurt closed his eyes again. Somehow, it seemed better that way: like he was the one with control of the light, as if, upon opening his eyes, it would be light again even though he knew better. But then the word _SOLDIER_ flashed across his mind's eye again and he opened his eyes once more. "I think that would be terrible," he said, his voice rough. "You'd be like a lamb led to the slaughter."

"I'm not talking about me _personally,_" Blaine objected, although it fell flat.

Kurt smiled softly. "Liar."

"You've looked, though, haven't you." It wasn't a question.

Kurt swallowed around the tightness in his throat, painful heat welling in his gut; an invisible stab wound nobody but he knew was there. "Yeah," he admitted. There was no point lying to Blaine.

"I don't want to know, do I?"

His eyes burned, and Kurt was surprised when a hand touched his cheek and he could feel the slick of tears. Blaine thumbed at his mouth, a gentle caress; Kurt could feel the rasp of the whorls of his fingerprint against his lips.

"I was aiming for your cheek, but I got your mouth instead," Blaine said after a beat. "Sorry."

Kurt chuckled. It was a wet sound, but it rang true. "If it's any comfort, the file was incomplete. I can't really tell you much."

"I guess it won't really tell you if I was happy, would it?"

Kurt didn't respond to that. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and wished for the tears to come to ease the ache in his heart; but just when he wanted them to come, they didn't.

Contrary buggers.

"Have you seen the apple orchard?" Blaine asked conversationally as they lay on their backs on the warm summer grass, stems shorn short and bristling with dry heat. Kurt turned his head to look at him, feeling the prickle of the grass against his head. Blaine was looking back at him with a small smile steady on his face, his eyes glowing honeyed gold in the afternoon sun.

"No, I don't think so," he said, breath hitching in his throat when Blaine's smile widened.

Blaine sat up, brushing grass from his trousers. "Come on, I'll show you," he said, getting to his feet and offering Kurt a hand up. "The apples won't be ready for another month or so, but there are some good climbing trees further back."

"I had hoped that you'd learned your lesson about tree climbing." Kurt raised an eyebrow dryly. "Don't tell me you're angling for a broken neck this time."

"Ah, but that would be counterproductive," Blaine said with a cheeky grin. "I wouldn't be able to kiss you if I did that."

"Cheeseball," Kurt said fondly, reaching out to take his hand and squeeze it tight.

"That's why you love me." Blaine led him past the greenhouse and around the corner to the high wall enclosing the right side of the garden. There was a narrow iron gate fixed into a gap in the grey stone, rust discolouring the joinings and corners. Blaine lifted the latch with his free hand, Kurt wincing at the screeching noise the eroded latch made, and tugged Kurt through. "The good trees are further back-they were planted too closely together, so they sort of grew into each other." He grinned. "It makes a jolly good castle, though."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "What are you, four?"

Blaine planted a wet and noisy kiss on Kurt's cheek, before leaning in close and saying, "Ah, but a four-year-old wouldn't be doing this." He kissed him, hot and open-mouthed and messy, their bodies pressed flush against each other. Kurt could feel the thrumming of Blaine's pulse, matching the beat of his own in perfect time. Blaine slid a hand up the back of Kurt's hoodie, hand hot through Kurt's flimsy t-shirt, and pressed in even closer, so that Kurt could feel the contours of Blaine's chest against his own, lightly muscled from what Kurt could only assume was years of sports at school. Blaine's tongue licked deeper into his mouth, demanding and impatient; and when Blaine flicked his tongue against Kurt's teeth, Kurt felt his knees shake and his stomach wobble and he moaned into the kiss in an embarrassingly wanton manner, his own hands sliding up under Blaine's shirt to dig his fingertips into the jut of Blaine's hips. Blaine hissed and kissed harder, breathing noisy and erratic, before pulling back and pressing their foreheads together, free hand coming up to cradle Kurt's face. "You," he said, between ragged gasps, "are _amazing_." He closed his eyes, overwhelmed. "You have no idea what you_do_ to me, Kurt. No idea."

Kurt could feel the hot line of Blaine against his hip, he only now realised, with an answering ache in his own crotch. He blushed scarlet and shifted back, moving their pelvises apart so that they were no longer indecently rubbing up on each other. He bit his lip and ducked his head. That was a bad move, he realised, because then he was staring at the tent in Blaine's grey wool trousers and _shit, he_ had done that. Him, not anyone else. He had done that to Blaine just by _kissing_ him. He knew instinctively, then, that were he to reach out and slip his hand into Blaine's underwear, Blaine would let him—would jerk up into his grip and gasp his pleasure into Kurt's ear in fact, hard and heavy and so _hot_ in Kurt's palm. Kurt would be able to watch Blaine come undone against him and know that it was because of him, that nobody else had ever seen Blaine like that, just him.

Kurt very nearly reached out to follow up on his thoughts, in fact, before it occurred to him that Blaine might want to do the same to him and what if Blaine didn't like what he saw? Blaine was muscular and well-proportioned and _gorgeous_ and Kurt was tall and gangly and baby-faced and pale and had soft curves to his hips that didn't go no matter how much running he did. Blaine would probably take one look at him and laugh awkwardly before pulling away and suggesting they go listen to some music instead. And then Kurt might not come back again and the last thing they would have would be awkward attempts at hand-jobs in Blaine's orchard in the middle of the afternoon and that wasn't what Kurt wanted. If he was going to do it, then he was going to do it_properly_, damn it.

Kurt licked his lips and met Blaine's eyes, which were still dark with lust but regarding Kurt with a worried expression. "You were going to show me your tree-castle?" he said, aiming to keep his voice light but it came out roughened and deep instead. He winced in embarrassment; Blaine probably thought he was some pervert who sounded like a porn star from just a _kiss,_Jesus.

"Yeah," Blaine said, sounding slightly dazed, his gaze fixed on Kurt's mouth once more. His cheeks had a high flush on them, his lips full and bruised red. He licked his lower lip, just once, teeth dragging painfully slowly over the soft, plump flesh, and Kurt felt himself twitch in his pants. He tore his gaze away, feeling embarrassment creep over him. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing he could adjust himself in his pants—thank god his pyjamas were loose-fit—and licked his own lips, relishing the tingle.

Blaine didn't take Kurt's hand again, for which Kurt was grateful—he didn't know if he would be able to stop himself from making a fool of himself if he so much as touched Blaine again—and instead led him through the lines of apple trees to the far end, where two trees had grown together into a tightly-knit knot of branches and leaves. Only a handful of apples grew on these trees, and they were small and brown and dried-up, wrinkled skins torn and blackened in places.

Blaine stopped at the foot of them. He rested a hand on the trunk of the centre one, his touch gentle and almost reverent. "These trees are my favourite, I think, because they won't give any fruit and they appear all mangled up and useless to the outside world, but they're the strongest trees out there. They've been through all sorts of weather and storms and never dropped a branch." He smiled at Kurt, a soft look in his eyes. "They're a bit like us," he said, looking back up into the tangled branches. "They hold each other up."

Kurt followed his gaze up into the cloud of branches and leaves, a bright-eyed blue-tit fluttering away and a responding chatter come from a nest high up. "That's rather deep," he said after a moment. The tension was thick in the air—both sexual and emotional—and he felt raw and sensitive all over, like his nerve endings were flaring up at the slightest thing and his brain was translating everything into a hugely over-emotional event.

When Blaine looked over at him, Kurt was surprised to see a flash of horror on his face. "What's wrong?" Blaine asked, wide-eyed with panic. "Was it too much? It was too much, wasn't it? I'm sorry, I'm sorry—we can just go and laze on the lawn again if you want, I don't mind, I'm sorry—"

Kurt shut him up with a gentle kiss, close-mouthed and chaste. He could feel the wetness on his cheeks from the tears he hadn't even realised he had been shedding. "I'm not sad, dumbass."

Blaine blinked at him, eyelashes long and dark around his hazel eyes. He looked confused. "Then why are you crying?"

Kurt shook his head. He reached out to curl a hand around the back of Blaine's neck, but didn't lean in to kiss him. "Because I'm _happy_. Despite everything, I'm _happy_."

Blaine kissed his cheek, kissing away the tear-tracks. Kurt could see Blaine's own eyes starting to shine wetly, tears clumping on his lashes like dewdrops on a downy feather. "I know what you mean," he said quietly, words brushing across Kurt's mouth in warm puffs of air. "I'm happy, too."

Kurt bit back a gasp as he stepped outside that night. All around him, snow covered every surface, twinkling in the moonlight. He took a step forward, the crystals crunching underfoot, and glanced up at the clear midnight sky.

"Kurt," Blaine's voice whispered from behind him, back in the hall. Kurt turned and smiled at him, feeling the familiar curl of happiness at seeing him. Blaine padded over in his slippers, a dark blue dressing gown wrapped around his lean frame.

"What are you doing awake?" Kurt took his hand, pulling him in close for a hug.

Blaine pressed a quick kiss to his cheek then broke away, jerking a thumb towards the kitchen door. "I was going to get a drink," he said, "it's a good thing it took me so long to find my slippers, then, or I might've missed you."

"I was going to go wake you up," Kurt admitted. "Probably with handful of snow, though."

Blaine laughed, the sound loud and bright in the silent house. Kurt 'ssshhh'ed him, pressing a finger to his lips. "You'll wake everybody up."

Blaine shrugged. "My mother is most likely dead to the world, and Father's away on a business trip to Cambridge." A wicked grin stole across his face, a glint appearing in his eyes that Kurt could see even in the half-light from the moon. "So you were going to wake me up with a handful of snow, huh?"

"Seemed too good an opportunity to miss," Kurt said casually, trying not to smirk. "I bet you scream higher than even I do."

Blaine chuckled. He reached out to curl a hand around Kurt's elbow, propelling him out the door into the snowy garden again. "Willing to make a bet?"

Kurt sniffed, lifting his chin. "A Hummel never backs down from a bet," he said, mustering his snootiest tone.

Blaine's grip tightened, fingertips digging into the soft crook of his elbow. He pulled Kurt in closer, looking up into his face with a mischievous smile. "So what do I get if I win?"

Kurt could feel the familiar tingle of heat low in his stomach, coupled with the blush already prickling up his neck. He licked his lips, heart rate picking up when Blaine's eyes tracked the motion. "Who says you win anything? Or that you're even going to win, for that matter?"

Blaine tilted his head slightly, their faces now close enough for their noses to brush, mouths scant centimetres apart. "I think I should win something."

Kurt would barely have to move to kiss him, but he held still. "That's assuming that you have the slightest chance at winning."

"Ooh," Blaine mocked, warm breath brushing over Kurt's face. "Confident, are we?"

"With good reason." Kurt's pulse was fluttering away at the base of his throat. Tingles were shooting up his arm, fanning out from where Blaine was touching him and sending shivers down his spine. He held his breath, waiting.

Blaine's eyes flickered up to meet his. They were hot and dark, practically smouldering in the half-light. His grip tightened almost imperceptibly on Kurt's arm, and he swayed in even closer to Kurt, pressing their torsos together and wrapping his other arm around Kurt, hand flattened to the small of Kurt's back. "Can I kiss you?" he asked, breath brushing across Kurt's mouth in a gentle caress, suggestive of what was still to come.

"No complaints here," Kurt said, hearing the breathless crack in his own voice but somehow unable to care. He let his eyes close, all of his senses tingling and hyper-aware of Blaine's close proximity. He could feel Blaine's heartbeat through his shirt, fast and regular and oh-so comforting.

Blaine chuckled softly, and breached the gap to touch their lips together; just a quick, chaste meeting of mouths, dry and warm. "I missed kissing you," he said, pulling back to look into Kurt's eyes, quiet and close and serious and _Kurt's_. "I missed _you_."

Kurt wrapped a hand around the back of Blaine's neck, leaning their foreheads together and closing his eyes to absorb the feel of Blaine. "I know," he said, and he didn't say _me too_ or _I know how you feel_ because the former would pale in comparison and the latter would be a barefaced lie. It had been one day for him. One day. Twenty-four hours. One thousand, four hundred and forty minutes. Eighty-six thousand and four hundred seconds.

Blaine's nose was cold when he nuzzled it against Kurt's cheek. "I love you," he murmured, tucking his face in the crook of Kurt's neck, breath hot against Kurt's chilled skin.

This, at least, Kurt could answer. "I love you too," he said, feeling the weight of the words on his tongue, rolling around his mouth, smooth and round like cherry pips. He could taste Blaine on his tongue still; an indescribable taste like peppermint and coffee with faint, undertones of cinnamon.

He could feel Blaine's smile against his neck. "Do you love me enough to forgive me for something?"

Kurt felt his stomach clench, then shiver and fall apart. "What?" he asked, dread wrapping cold fingers around his heart and leaving a hot-cold, sickened sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Blaine pulled away, and Kurt was confused by the playful twinkle in his eyes. "For _this_." He leaned down and grabbed a handful of snow, tossing it into Kurt's face.

Kurt gasped and shrieked and blinked the frozen crystals out of his eyes, clumps sticking to his eyelashes. "You're going to pay for that, Blaine Anderson," he said, wiping his face with his sleeve. His skin stung from the cold, but it was a pleasant sting that made his cheeks tingle.

"You'd have to catch me first," Blaine retorted, already springing away from Kurt and ducking behind the tree, a smirk on his face.

Kurt bent and picked up a handful of snow, hissing as it chilled his fingers. "Oh, you're _on_."

"I didn't know if I would get to see you again before Christmas," Blaine murmured, skating his thumb over the back of Kurt's hand.

Kurt exhaled heavily, shifting closer to drop his head onto Blaine's shoulder. He breathed in the warm scent of _Blaine_. "I think the clock's getting a little temperamental."

"Sodding thing." Blaine turned his head to press a gentle kiss to Kurt's hair, his lips lingering, as if he was trying to memorise the sensation. "I don't know if I love it or hate it, to be quite honest."

Kurt hummed in agreement and let his eyes droop shut, feeling Blaine's warmth radiate through him and leave his skin tingling—but not from the chill of the snow, which lay in a fine layer on the grass, slightly crunchy to the touch. There was a crispness to the air that nipped at Kurt's fingers and nose, but the liquid head pooling in his stomach kept the cold at bay.

"My trousers are getting wet," Blaine said after a moment of comfortable silence, sounding slightly annoyed.

"Want me to move?" Kurt offered, not bothering to lift his head or even open his eyes. He felt Blaine's lips on his hair again.

"No." Kurt felt the answer rather than heard it: Blaine's mouth moving hotly against his scalp, the word breathed into his hair and sending vibrations through his body. A squirmy feeling started in his belly, his pulse suddenly loud in his ears.

A light flicked on inside the house, the light pouring out into the garden in strips across the snow.

"Shit," Blaine said softly. His entire body vibrated with tension, an electric thrum. "We must have woken Mother." He sprang to his feet, his dressing gown covered in wet patches of melted snow, his cheeks flushed and his hair mussed from sleep and playfighting. He looked at Kurt in consternation, eyes wide. "She's going to wonder why I'm not in bed."

Kurt bit his lip, his side cold now that Blaine had left. "You should probably go back inside, then."

Blaine hesitated still. "You could...come with me. Upstairs, I mean."

Kurt stared at him, a knot of panic in his chest. Was Blaine suggesting what he thought he was thinking? "What?"

Blushing, he toed at the ground with a sodden slipper, carefully not meeting Kurt's eyes. "I don't mean to _do_ anything, just...I don't want to leave you outside in the cold."

"I'll be gone in a bit," Kurt pointed out, feeling a pang of guilt when Blaine's face fell at his words, eyes closing off and back stiffening. He picked at the snow, unable to look at Blaine's face; he focussed on how soft the snow looked but how it bit at his fingertips, sticking wetly to his skin. "Go, Blaine."

Blaine took a cautious step closer. "Can I kiss you goodbye?" he asked, sounding as if he expected Kurt to say no or yell at him and reject him. When Kurt looked up, his eyes were wet, lashes long and dark. "I...this might be it, Kurt." He shook his head, swallowing hard and closing his eyes as if in pain. "Can I kiss you, one last time? Please?"

_This might be our last chance._

Kurt nodded, a broken and abrupt movement, then lurched to his feet, Blaine reaching out to steady him and draw him close. Kurt's stomach flipped at the warm brush of his skin. "It's not you, I swear," he said, leaning their heads together and breathing in the scent of Blaine. "It's me. I just...I can't, okay? Not yet."

Blaine pulled back, a frown creasing his forehead. "What?" He looked utterly perplexed.

Kurt felt his cheeks heat up. He ducked his head. "I'm not ready for..._that_."

Blaine still looked non-plussed.

Kurt's cheeks were on fire, he was sure of it. "You know."

"I'm pretty sure I don't, actually," Blaine said, wrapping his fingers around Kurt's wrist and holding it against his chest. Kurt could feel the beat of Blaine's heart, could imagine the life flowing through Blaine's body.

Kurt groaned. "_Sex_."

Blaine's mouth dropped open in a manner that Kurt would most likely have found comical had he not been willing the ground to open up and swallow him whole. "Kurt, _what?_ You thought I was suggesting—you know, _that?_"

"You weren't?"

"No!" Blaine shook his head furiously. He looked the picture of embarrassment. "I just meant to _hold_ each other."

Kurt scrubbed a hand over his face and laughed awkwardly. "Oh."

Blaine touched Kurt's cheek, looking deep into Kurt's eyes with a bashful expression. "I'm not exactly ready, either, don't worry."

Kurt chuckled, albeit nervously. "That's good, then. Good to know we're on the same page."

"Yeah." Blaine rubbed at the back of his neck, still red-faced. "So, uh, are you coming up?"

"Of course." Kurt smiled and dropped a kiss on Blaine's cheek. "Need you ask?"


End file.
